


The Crash

by peterparkr



Series: Febuwhump 2020 [12]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Airplane Crashes, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Stabbing, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Whump, febuwhump 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22874878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterparkr/pseuds/peterparkr
Summary: Tony and Peter's plane goes down in the mountains.Febuwhump Day 12: Stabbed
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Febuwhump 2020 [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620064
Comments: 14
Kudos: 264





	The Crash

**Author's Note:**

> And now back to my irregularly scheduled whump!

Their plane crashes somewhere between Maryland and New York.

“Can you call it a crash if it was crashed on purpose?” Peter asks through gritted teeth as he tries to pry open one of the emergency exits. "I don't know. 'Crash' implies accidental to me for some reason."

The kid's feet stick to either side of it as he pulls, using only one hand. He’s holding his other arm at a funny angle. Tony's pretty sure it's broken. He'll ask Peter about it once they get out of the plane.

He cranes his neck to look through one of the windows. The wing on the left side of the plane is gone, ripped straight off when they hit something—possibly a mountain—during their unfortunate descent. Tony tries to envision a map of the US in his head. Maybe they’re near the Appalachians.

Wherever they are, the plane’s tilted onto the side of the missing wing, blocking the main door and leaving the emergency exit on what is now the roof. Peter’s been upside down for a long time, trying to open it. Tony doesn’t know how he does it.

“You said ‘crashed on purpose’,” he points out, with an emphasis on ‘crashed’. “So, I think it still counts."

“Huh.” Peter nods. “Guess so.”

It figures that the flight home would be their problem. The mission in DC had gone completely smooth, to Tony’s immense relief. He tries to only bring Peter on the low-risk adventures—make sure the kid knows he's a valued member of the team while still keeping him safe. He hadn't accounted for plane-related incidents.

The rest of the team stayed behind in DC to make sure the situation was completely resolved, so the only people on board were Tony, Peter, and the staff. Except the staff turned out to be not quite the average working class citizens that they were supposed to be.

“I can’t believe they attacked us,” Peter says, jumping down from the emergency exit. He crouches and then leaps up again, hitting the door as hard as he can with one fist. It gives a promising creak before Peter falls back down, twisting to land on his feet. “And then they crashed the plane, like, they couldn’t just admit their defeat and move on. They had to just—”

He motions with his hand, making a whooshing sound with his mouth while dipping his fingers into a nosedive.

Tony watches him carefully. He seems a bit off, even more scattered than usual, on edge and over-compensating with jokes and loud words—which Tony can relate to. And it does make sense. They did just survive a plane crash. Tony worries nonetheless.

Peter shakes his head. “It’s crazy. People are crazy. What did they even want?”

Tony leans his head back against the armrest of the closest seat. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say they wanted to kill us.”

“I know that! But what did they actually want. What was their whole evil plan?”

“I don’t know, kid. They're AIM." They even have the logos to prove it under their airline crew costumes. "Nothing good.”

It doesn’t matter anymore. All of their adversaries are incapacitated. The cockpit was demolished, effectively killing the two who had rushed up there to crash the plane. Peter knocked out three others. They’re in a pile near the back. _Alive_ , Peter had chirped happily after checking on them. Tony can’t say the same about the two he’d been grappling with. He killed one with a blast from the wrist-gauntlets that he’d thankfully decided to wear on the flight. The other died on impact.

He fiddles with his StarkPhone for what feels like the millionth time. It’s busted, jagged cracks running through the center from where it smashed against the sides of the plane. He grabs the helmet of his suit and puts it on, whispering commands to FRIDAY. There’s no signal, so she’s relatively useless, just a voice to talk to. He still gives her another message to relay to Pepper if there’s ever a connection, before taking it back off.

Peter glances over his shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Tony shifts, forcing his head up even though it starts to pound uncomfortably hard at the movement. “I’ll be fine. Better once you get that door open.”

“One open door, coming right up,” Peter says with a lopsided grin.

He crawls up the wall and gives the door a final shove with his foot. It flies completely off its hinges. Tony hears it land somewhere outside.

“Nice work,” he comments.

Peter leaps back down, ducking his head a little at the praise.

Tony rolls onto his side and tries to push himself up. It’s not a pretty process. Everything hurts—some things more than others. He feels like a tortoise who's fallen on his back, rolling around on his shell without much progress. Or more accurately like one of the poor saps in those Life Alert commercials. He probably looks like one of them, too.

“Er—do you need—”

Tony hooks his arm over the seat and claws his way into a variation of a standing position. It’s more like leaning. He’s definitely leaning more than he’s standing.

Peter jogs over to him and loops his good arm under his shoulders, glancing over at him nervously. “I know I keep asking this, but are you good? Like, seriously?”

It’s a fair question. Tony was already a bit battered from their mission in DC and the crash did nothing to help that. He’s sure his body is littered with bruises and scrapes. He might have a broken rib or two. One of his ankles doesn’t seem to want to take any of his weight and he hit his head countless times as they plummeted out of the sky. 

It’s also quite possible that the fake flight attendant stabbed him before Tony blasted him into the afterlife. It might be more than possible. Tony watched it happen, felt the blade plunge into the squishy flesh about an inch above his hip bone. 

He shrugs. “Getting old, kid. Can’t take hits like I used to. What’s wrong with your arm?”

Peter frowns down at it. “I mean, it’s not right.”

“Clearly.” Tony winces as Peter helps him get to the spot directly underneath the emergency exit. “Does it hurt?”

“I’m not sure. Not really? Maybe a little. Feels kind of funny.”

It’ll hurt once all of the adrenaline wears off. Tony’s starting to feel his own waning.

Peter props him against the side of the plane, then grabs his backpack and dumps out a stack of notebooks. He shoves a first aid kit, some blankets, and then a few oxygen masks in as replacements with a shrug. 

Tony presses his fingers into his side as he watches. When he brings them away they're red. He wipes them off on his pants.

“I have some food in my bag,” he says, pointing to it. 

Peter nods and slings it over his shoulder as well. He crawls up and sets the two bags outside. Then he hangs down with only his feet attached, hoisting Tony up and through the hole with his good arm. The ride isn’t as jerky as it could be, but it still sends shooting pains out from the region where the knife pierced his skin.

Tony stays on his hands and knees until he catches his breath, then looks up.

He’s starting to put more stock in his guess about the Appalachians. On one side of the plane, there’s a sharp incline up a mountain, on the other he sees only distant tree-tops. Some are green, but there are bunches of orange and red leaves speckled among them as well. It would be a beautiful sight in other circumstances. 

He scoots himself over to lean on the edge of the wing. His hands tremble as he lifts up the bottom of his shirt. The material is damp, stuck to his body. He glances back towards to emergency exit to confirm that Peter is still inside before closing his eyes and peeling the blood-soaked fabric off the wound. The stinging sensation that follows prickles through his surrounding skin. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter as he waits for the worst of it to pass, wishing his consciousness could leave the painful prison of his body.

Even when he can open his eyes without the fear of throwing up, they aren't of much use to him. The gash and surrounding area swim around, dotted with colorful bursts of light and black spaces as he tries to inspect it. He can’t tell if it’s wider than he thought or if the blood has just spread. He leans over, barely containing a groan, to grab the bag with the first aid kit. 

He looks down into the hole again. Peter’s still nowhere in sight.

“Pete?” he calls.

“I’ll be right there. I’m checking on the people who attacked us!”

Of course he is. The kid’s too kind for his own good. At least it should buy Tony some time. 

He opens the first aid kit and grabs Peter’s water bottle from the outside pocket of his backpack. He pours some of the water onto his skin to wash out the wound and clear some of the blood, biting his lip to stop himself from crying out in pain. His vision blacks out completely and he finds himself swaying to the side. He shoots a hand up to grab the wing to steady himself.

He takes a deep breath and presses a few of the gauze pads from the first aid kit onto the gash. Blood seeps through them quickly. He frowns and adds a few more before grabbing a roll of bandages and wrapping it around his torso. 

“Are we going to leave them here, Mr. Stark? That seems kind of—” 

Tony’s head jerks up in time to see Peter’s face poke out from the emergency exit. It takes him a second to register the sight in front of him—eyes honing in on the sloppily applied bandages before widening.

Tony yanks his shirt down and throws the supplies back into the kit.

“You said you were okay.” Peter’s tone is accusatory, but his face betrays that he’s more scared than anything else. He blinks rapidly, starting to look like he’s on the verge of tears. That won’t do. If they’re going to get out of this, they need to stay calm. 

“‘Just a cut,” Tony says easily. “I wanted to get it bandaged up before we get moving.”

Peter blinks a few more times. He rolls the Iron Man helmet over to Tony and then pulls himself the rest of the way through the exit. He’s starting to cradle his arm more now, holding it in a protective position near his stomach.

“Grab me a blanket,” Tony says before Peter can try to bring up the bandages. “And the scissors. I’ll whip you up a sling.”

It says something about the pain that Peter must be starting to feel that he complies without protest. Tony takes the items, cutting the blanket into a square and then draping it over Peter, wrapping it around his arm and tying the ends behind his neck.

“There you go.” Tony pats his shoulder a few times.

He reaches back into the first aid kit and pulls out the bottle of painkillers. He holds it up and shakes it, frowning when he finds that it’s at least half empty. 

“Here,” he says, holding the bottle out to Peter. “Start with a double-dose. See if that does anything for you.”

It won’t. Tony’s not sure if even a full bottle of the pills would have any effect with Peter’s metabolism. His only shot is some sort of placebo effect kicking in.

Peter downs them, following it with a swig of water, then holds them back out to Tony. “Do you want any?”

He shakes his head. The more that there are for Peter, the better.

“What about the others?”

Tony loads the scraps of the blanket back into one of the backpacks before looking up. “We can’t carry them.”

“I could.”

He gives Peter’s slinged-up arm a pointed glance. “Not like that you can’t. Once we’re found, we’ll send a rescue team back here.”

“They could die by then.”

“I know,” Tony sighs. “I’m trying, kid. Not much I can do.”

“Couldn’t you use the plane parts to make something? Boost our signal? I don’t know.”

“The useful stuff was in the cockpit.” Tony gestures to the still smoking, smashed-up front of the plane. His eyes linger on it for a minute. They really should get out of the area—just in case. “They’ll track the black box, though. And our suits.”

Even if he did have supplies, he's not sure he has the mental capacity to pull off any great contraption at the moment. He's drained. It might be his primary feeling right now, rivaling even the pain. The thought of scavenging for materials and finding a way to piece them together sounds impossible.

Tony picks up the helmet and looks at it. It’s the only piece of his tech that he has left on him—besides the wrist gauntlets. The rest of his suit was sucked out of the plane when the wing fell off. He assumes something similar happened to Peter’s because they couldn’t find it after the crash. This is he exact sort of situation where the implants would be useful. Part of him wishes that he had never taken them out.

The locations of their suits should be transmitting though—enough to give the team an idea of where they are.

He rubs his hand over the helmet like it’s some sort of good luck charm. Some days it feels like it is. Others it feels like a curse. Today, he's leaning towards the latter.

Peter’s eyes track the motion. “How long do you think it will take them to find us?”

Tony shrugs. “In the meantime we need to find shelter that isn’t at risk of blowing us into little pieces.”

Peter nods. He fiddles with his hands in his lap. Tony takes the opportunity to stick a bandage over the cut on his hairline and another on his cheek.

Peter offers him a tight smile, before looking down at his hands again. “My parents died in a plane crash.”

Tony looks up at Peter and finds the kid's eyes averted. He knew that his parents were dead and that they died in an accident. For some reason, he assumed it was a car. He never really looked into it further. 

“Germany was my first time in a plane, like, ever.” Peter grabs the bags from Tony and slings them over his shoulder. “This was my—fifth, maybe? My fifth plane ride and it crashes. I don’t think Parkers are meant to fly.”

He shakes his head and leaps to the ground without another word. Tony watches him land—wincing and curling his other arm around the broken one before collecting himself. Peter’s tough. Tony wishes he didn’t have to be.

He maneuvers himself over to the edge and slides down the side. His feet connect hard with the ground, sending jarring spasms of pain up into his legs and through his injured side.

His knees start to buckle and he finds himself in a crouch, awkwardly propping his upper body up to keep his abdomen from bending. He stays in the position, breathing heavily and waiting for the world to come back into focus. 

Peter’s head appears in the swirl of green and brown. 

“I was going to help you down,” he says. There are worry lines etched across his forehead. “Can you stand?”

“Of course,” Tony mumbles.

The statement is negated by his struggle to do so, even with Peter’s grasp around his arm. The edges of his vision are becoming more cloudy for longer periods of time. His will to fight against the darkness is coming and going. There are spurts of motivation, followed by deep weariness that seeps over not only his body, but his mind—making his thoughts foggy and hard to reach. 

He tries to take a few steps. Each one feels like he’s being stabbed again. The pain turns into a series of intense shudders that wrack through his body. He collapses more heavily into Peter’s side.

Peter sways a little at the extra weight, before planting his foot and straightening up again. Tony shakes himself. He needs to get a grip. He’s not the only one who’s hurt and the kid may be tough, but he’s still just that—a kid. It’s Tony’s responsibility to get them out of this.

He forces himself to take more of his own weight and then a few more steps forward, his breath coming out in pants. 

“Maybe we should stay here, Mr. Stark.”

“Can’t.” It doesn't come out quite right. His lips are made of cotton. He smacks them together a few times to test the feeling before going back to trying to shape words with them. “S’getting dark. Plane’s gonna blow-up. We need t'find shelter.”

“You’re really pale all of the sudden,” Peter tries. “I think—”

“It’s fine,” Tony snaps. The sharpness in his voice makes him sound more sure and Peter needs him to sound sure. “Let’s get moving.”

Peter bites his lip, unconvinced creases joining the worry lines. They even out as he comes to a decision and tightens his grip on Tony. “Left or right?”

Tony blinks at him a few times until the question makes sense and then he swings his head both ways. Left looks like it’s going up. Up sounds impossible. Tony gestures to the right.

It’s slow-going. Tony maintains that uphill would have been worse, but downhill isn’t easy by any means. The terrain is uneven enough that it would be a challenging hike without the added bonus of their subpar conditions.

Tony starts to—not forget about the pain, exactly, but it takes a backseat to other, more pressing matters. His skin feels as thin as tracing paper. It’s starting to crinkle up with every beat of his heart. Each swift _bum-bum_ expands out from his chest until it’s everywhere, echoing under his skin. The only thing that he can focus on is if the next one will arrive.

Peter keeps calling for breaks that he doesn’t seem to need. He spends them tapping his foot and offering Tony water, which he guzzles down gratefully.

“You really don’t look good,” Peter blurts out on one such break. “We should stop, I think.”

Tony tries to straighten himself from the tree he’s slumped on. They can’t stop. There’s a reason for that, but Tony can’t access it right now. Sorting through the memories makes him more tired. He’ll figure it out later.

“Keep going,” Tony mutters.

“No,” Peter says, more firmly this time. 

Before Tony knows what’s happening, Peter’s lowering him to the ground. 

“I’m going to look at your cut.”

His shirt lifts and then falls back down as Peter inhales sharply. Then it lifts back up again and hands start tearing off the bandages. Tony groans, eyes rolling back into his head. His heart-rate increases somehow. Tony didn’t think that was possible. It already seemed like it was going as fast as it could. There's no way it can keep up this pace for long. It’s going to quit. Or tear through his flesh. Tony doesn’t know which would be worse.

“Shit,” Peter whispers. 

Tony hears him start to rummage through their bags. He props his head up with some difficulty and cracks his eyes open. 

Peter’s hand shakes as he struggles to open the first aid kit with one arm out of commission.

“Come on, come _on_ ,” he practically growls as the latch slides out of his grasp again and again.

Tony reaches for it. “Let me.”

“Stop.” Peter’s eyes flash up and Tony pulls his hand back, recoiling from the anger he sees there. “Just stop. This isn’t a cut, Mr. Stark. I’ve been knifed enough times to recognize a stab-wound.”

Tony stares at him for a moment until his head becomes too heavy to hold the position. He lets it fall back and gets a full look at the sky. It's mesmerizing— dark blue high up melting into shades of purple and then fiery orange near the horizon.

“Oh my god.” Tony hears Peter scramble forward. “Mr. Stark?”

Peter’s face comes over him, obstructing the view of the fading sun in the sky. He doesn’t look angry anymore, back to scared.

“S’wrong?” Tony asks.

Peter sighs in relief and then brings his arm up, rubbing it under his eyes. “Sorry—I—stay awake, okay, Mr. Stark? I’m going to—”

There's a scuffle of boots on leaves. The sound becomes rhythmic. Tony lets his head roll to the side to watch the kid pace. He’s limping. Tony didn’t realize that before.

“I don’t think we should have left the plane.” Peter’s talking more to himself than Tony. “They’re going to find it and then not know which way we went. I think it’s too far back now—I—”

He walks over to Tony. “I’m going to find us shelter. Just don't move and don’t sleep and—here, let me—”

Peter kneels and grabs one of his wrists. Moments later, Tony feels something heavy on his hand.

“Look, your gauntlet’s up. If anything comes—are you listening?”

Tony rolls his head the other way to look at Peter. He gets distracted by the red metal on his hand on the way. He flexes his fingers a few times.

“Yes,” Peter says. “If anything comes just shoot it.”

He lays one of the blankets over Tony, tucking the edges in around his sides. 

“I’m going to find us shelter,” Peter repeats. “I’ll be back.”

He picks up the Iron Man mask and pulls it over his head. Tony hears him talking into it as he jogs away.

“This is Peter—Peter Parker. Can anyone hear me? I—we need help. We’re on a mountain. I don’t know where exactly. Can anyone hear me?”

Tony turns his head back up to watch the sky as Peter’s voice fades into the distance. The orange is thinner than it was. He can see tiny dots of stars in the deep blue. It’s calming. His heart doesn’t feel as frantic anymore, the beating is still fast, but not as forceful.

Either he loses consciousness or time jumps, because the sky is suddenly pure, uninterrupted black. There are hands on his shoulders, shaking him. All of the shapes in front of him are blurry. He squints until something familiar—his own mask—comes into focus.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says, voice high with panic. “Mr. Stark?”

He grunts and Peter’s head and shoulders sag forward. “Thank god.”

Tony’s eyelids threaten to close. He doesn’t try to fight them.

The shaking starts up again. “No, Mr. Stark. _Tony_.”

He jerks awake at that. He can count the number of times that Peter has used his first name on one hand. 

“I found a little cabin. It’s about a mile away. Kind of creepy—but there’s electricity and running water. And I got a signal there—I think I got a message off.”

He tries to lift Tony to his feet gently. The motion still slices through the blissful numbness that Tony managed to reach. His insides are being torn apart again. A sharp cry of pain escapes him.

“I’m sorry,” Peter mumbles. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you, Mr. Stark.”

Tony doesn’t so much walk as shuffle his feet a little while Peter drags him in the direction of the cabin. Whenever he gives up, allowing his feet to go limp, Peter coaxes him to keep moving. There’s a note of desperation in his voice that keeps spurring Tony into action.

Until it’s not enough. His limbs are too heavy, his head too light in comparison. The world is spinning so fast that he’s not sure which direction they’re actually walking in. It’s making him nauseous. His body starts to pitch toward the ground and he doesn’t try to stop it. 

Peter gasps, falling forward with him. He pulls Tony back at the last second, barely keeping his face from slamming into the ground. Tony collapses onto his side, closing his eyes to try to stop the dizziness and stave off the waves of nausea.

“Just a little further,” Peter pleads. “We’re almost there. Come on, sir.”

“Go.” Tony tries to raise his hand to push him away, but he doesn’t think he manages it.

“Tony, please, please. You have to get up. We’re so close. And then you can lay down for as long as you want! And then Mr. Rogers is going to find us and we’re going to go home. Please, Tony.”

He’s letting Peter down. He doesn’t want to. He never wants to do that. He feels his eyes starting to close anyway.

“No,” Peter says. “No, get up. You have to get up.”

Tony tries to say that he’s sorry. He thinks it as hard as he can—trying to project it directly into Peter's mind.

There’s a stretch of silence and then a groan of pain and he’s being lifted off the ground. Through his lashes he sees the blue of Peter’s blanket sling float to the ground. He feels hands under his back and legs.

The next time he stirs, the hands are letting go of him. 

“We made it, Mr. Stark.”

One of the hands comes back, this time pressing on the wound. Tony tries to writhe away to escape it, but gives up when he’s held in place. He stops trying to fight the pain and succumbs to it.

“Sorry, I have to. It’s okay, I’m sorry, it’s okay.”

Peter’s voice keeps babbling, but the tone shifts, like the words are no longer meant for him. When Tony's eyelids flutter, there’s a vague outline of his helmet floating in front of him.

“He’s not bleeding as much anymore, but—I don’t—I’m trying. How close are you? Please hurry. He won’t wake up and—” Peter cuts off, and there’s a stuttering choked-up gasp before he continues. “His heartbeat sounds really weak. Just hurry. I’m—”

He doesn’t have to finish the thought for Tony to understand it. The tone of his voice says it all—he’s all alone, hurt and terrified.

Tony tries to move his hand, to reach out to Peter, show him that he _is_ here, but nothing happens. He opens his mouth to speak but only quiet mumbled nonsense comes out. It’s enough for Peter to grab his shoulder and squeeze it.

“He’s making noises,” Peter whispers. “Is that a good thing?”

Tony tries to shift. Peter squeezes his shoulder again and then takes the mask off. He lays his head down at Tony's side. "Ten minutes. Just ten minutes. Mr. Rogers promised."

Later, there’s the distinctive chopping of helicopter blades and the swish of fabric as people move around. Then, there’s beeping medical equipment and a scream of pain that sounds too much like Peter. Tony struggles against whatever’s holding him down at that, but someone rests their hand on his head and hushes him.

He blinks a few times, Steve’s face filtering in out of the darkness. There are tubes attached to Tony's body. He quickly looks away from them, forcing down the urge to try to rip them out. 

“He’s okay,” Steve says. “They had to re-break his bone to set it. He started healing too fast.”

That doesn’t sound okay. Tony flails his limbs again.

“Don’t.” Steve’s giving Tony his stern ‘I’m Captain America and you have to listen to me’ face. “You need to rest. We’re on the way to the Med-bay.”

Tony shakes his head once, then realizes that’s actually a good course of action, and keeps swiveling it, trying to catch a glimpse of Peter.

“You’re ridiculous.” There’s a hint of fondness in Steve’s voice to soften the words. “I honestly thought your side-gig looking out for the kid would mellow you out—not turn you into a crazed mother hen.”

Tony frowns. His brain is too foggy to come up with a response. 

“Wha?” he slurs instead. “S’Peter?”

Steve rolls his eyes. He leaves and returns a few minutes later with Peter by his side. The kid’s eyes are glazed over, like either he’s still in immense amounts of pain or someone finally got him the good stuff. His arm is in a proper sling and there’s a wide, almost loopy, grin on his face—which seems out-of-place given the situation. Tony decides it must be drugs and not pain that Peter’s feeling.

“There,” Steve says. “Will you rest now, Tony?”

His eyes are already drifting shut.

**Author's Note:**

> My favorite things to write are 1) time travel 2) stranded somewhere with concealed injury and I feel like I am making that very obvious recently
> 
> My [tumblr!](https://peterparkrr.tumblr.com)


End file.
